Guarding the Spoils (The Wild Randalls - Book 3) (12 page)

“Clearing some space,” he replied without breaking his stride.

He prowled around and when he found nothing else to toss out with the trash he lowered the window again, leaving only a narrow gap to stir the air. He dusted himself off and scrubbed a hand through his short hair, the epitome of energy and optimism.

She was glad he had recovered his health. The first time she’d laid eyes on him again had made her weep into her pillow that night after George had fallen asleep. She’d always wondered what had become of the Randalls, but she’d never imagined Oliver would return so changed. He’d always been lean of build, but his face was now gaunt, although not as bad as the first day. Late at night, his eyes were dark, sunken pools of weariness and occasionally she detected traces of that same fatigue in the mornings when he’d remained up very late reading. It had taken days before she’d been able to look upon him without her fears for his survival surfacing. But he’d recovered and resumed his usual style of living. Remote and self-sufficient for everything he might want.

“May I ask why you are doing the maid’s work?”

He moved a chair and began rolling a floor rug into a log, but it was just too long to do on his own. He glanced up and a rueful smile twisted his lips. “I will need your assistance to begin.”

Caught staring, a blush heated her cheeks as she remembered his kiss from an hour earlier. The foolish moment had fled her mind once she’d learned of Henry’s plan for George and it seemed Oliver had forgotten the kiss as well. There was no hint he’d even thought of it again. She moved to the other end of the rug and together they completed the task. She stood and quickly dusted off the hem of her skirts. Oliver moved off into another chamber without offering thanks of any kind. He seemed as indifferent to her presence or her help as he had ever been.

Irritation seized her and she hurried toward the room George had disappeared inside. She caught a glimpse of Oliver standing beside a large canopied bed in the other room, removing the faded curtains from the bed poles and balling them up at his feet. She blushed self-consciously as her gaze snagged on the wide expanse of his shoulders. She’d always admired tall, broad-shouldered men, even indifferent ones.

She sighed and turned away, afraid, she was backsliding rather badly. She wasn’t a young girl anymore and she couldn’t spend her time wishing for what she couldn’t have.

The small chamber her son had disappeared into lacked drapes and dazzled her eyes momentarily with its brightness. George sat on a hardwood chair he’d dragged to the window and stared out at the scene below, a book lying neglected in his hands. He turned and smiled suddenly. “I like it here.”

She set her hands to his shoulders and kissed the top of his head, admiring the scene outside the window. “It’s a pretty view.”

Outside, there was nothing but fields and forest. No one moved on the great estate that she could see. It was as if the world did not exist beyond the dirty panes of glass.

Beth glanced at the book George held. “Are you enjoying that?”

He shrugged. “I found it beneath the cupboard, but I cannot understand it.”

She took the slim volume from him and flipped a few pages. She squinted. “It’s in French, I believe.”

George took the book and stared at the pages with a glum expression on his face. He’d never learned the language, and Beth’s understanding was rudimentary at best so she’d not taught him. He looked so frustrated by it that Beth took the book back and set it aside. “We should go now.”

He slowly got to his feet. “I like this room better than mine.”

She tapped his nose. “The rooms we have are fine enough for the two of us. Come along. The duchess has given me leave for the afternoon. We can do anything you want.”

She wouldn’t tell George about her sudden change in circumstances yet. If she did, she’d have to tell him why and that could only lead to questions she wasn’t prepared to answer yet.

“Can we stay here instead of going out?”

Beth looked at her son carefully and grimaced. His best clothes were covered in dust. “I’d rather not.”

George shrank into the chair in an act of silent defiance. Beth sighed. George’s growing reluctance to leave the abbey preyed on her mind. Had the stable masters sons become that big a nuisance?

When Oliver stopped in the doorway as if to speak with them, Beth pulled George up from the chair.

“Ouch,” he complained. “That’s twice today.”

Beth pushed him to the door, past Oliver, and into the sitting area. “Enough. You’ve monopolized Mr. Randall’s time sufficiently for today.”

Although Oliver’s brow rose at her comment, he let them leave without a word and when she was far enough away she let out a relieved breath. George turned back. “Good night, sir.”

Beth quickly glanced over her shoulder and was surprised to find Oliver had followed them as far as the doorway. He nodded and Beth pulled George all the way down the hall until they reached their rooms. “There will be no more sneaking off to the east wing. Is that understood?”

“But I’m not in the way there,” George protested. “I’m always in the way belowstairs and you don’t want me in the public rooms like the library.”

Beth pinched the bridge of her nose. “You cannot play in any part of the abbey you choose. It isn’t fair, but that is the way of things.”

“He doesn’t mind.”

“Who doesn’t mind? Oliver Randall?” Beth choked on a laugh. “How can you tell if he’s happy to see you or not?”

George grinned. “He’s happy to see me. Happy to see you, too. He just doesn’t talk as much as everyone else, but I figured him out.”

Beth folded her hands over her chest. “Assuming Oliver Randall cares for anyone is always the first mistake. Try not to be too disappointed when you discover he doesn’t. It can be a painful lesson to learn. Trust me on this.”

Chapter Eleven

“YOU’RE GETTING IN the habit of absconding with my servants,” the duchess grumbled to Oliver as she stepped into the chaos of his new apartments. Maids and footmen worked together to give the room a thorough cleaning and the mice had all been chased into hiding. He probably should have asked Elizabeth to assign the servants, but she’d appeared much distracted by the arrival of Henry Turner and it was far quicker to just arrange it himself.

“They were needed,” he said, glancing about him at the improvements made so far to the room. One chimney had been cleaned and a nice fire burned in the hearth, casting a fine glow over the polished wood and chairs placed before it. The rugs were still out being beaten, but he anticipated their return by the end of the day along with fresh linen for the bed.

“So I hear. I would have preferred to have heard your plans from your own lips. If it’s not too much trouble, that is.” The duchess’s sarcasm was palpable in her last statement and Oliver tried to hide a smile as he worked. The woman did not like to be ignored. She must always be at the center of everything. An attitude that he resisted pandering to.

Oliver stacked another full trunk against the wall. Now that he had the space, he had also made an impressive beginning to his departure. The items that Beth had moved yesterday had already been transferred here and as he looked about him, a feeling of contentment trickled through him. Everything was coming together as he’d hoped.

A housemaid hurried past, bobbed an unsteady curtsy to the duchess, and fled into a bedchamber. His new bedchamber where he would sleep tonight in blessed isolation. Since his return to Romsey his family had hovered, surreptitiously checking in on him when they thought him asleep. His time at Skepington had taught him to sleep lightly. Tonight he would lock the east-wing doors, wander the rooms for as long as he cared to and sleep well past the rising hour if he felt like it.

The duchess cleared her throat. “I also understand that you gave Eamon Murphy leave to be absent from his duties yesterday.”

Oliver nodded. “Eamon has a knack for ferreting out fact and fiction.”

“About what?” Her Grace’s hand punched one hip. “Must I wring that information from your lips, too?”

Oliver frowned. Even gossip took time to spread. “There is nothing to tell yet and to speculate without further enquiry would be unwise. Eamon will return shortly.”

“So you are investigating Henry Turner?”

Oliver shrugged. “Perhaps I am. I am curious about him.”

“Why? Do you not believe him truthful about his life in America?”

Oliver paused. He had no concrete notion of why Henry Turner’s answers bothered him so much, but the more he reviewed them, the more practiced they appeared to be. “He’s a skilled conversationalist.”

The duchess moved a pile of papers and settled herself on the chair. “So are many people of my acquaintance, but that doesn’t mean I distrust them because of it.”

“He wasn’t when I knew him before and he leaves out specifics in his answers. Who are these great friends of his in America? He’s yet to say one fellow’s name.”

The duchess tapped her fingers on the table impatiently. “So you are doing this out of idle curiosity alone?”

“Of course.” He frowned, baffled by her question. “Why else engage in the study of another person and their affairs?”

She sat forward in her chair. “I thought perhaps you were concerned about Mrs. Turner going so far away,” she said softly, casting a swift glance at the servants around them to see if her voice had carried. “You did seem a little startled when she said she would go, so I imagine you will be pleased that she is no longer the housekeeper of Romsey. I thought it best to free her time from the responsibilities of the position so she might have time to reconsider her decision to leave. Perhaps you could exert some of that Randall charm and convince her of the advantages of staying.”

He blinked. No one had ever suggested he was charming, not once in his life. Annoying, exacting and self-absorbed were the most frequent charges. How could he convince Elizabeth to stay if she wouldn’t listen to him? “She was far too good for the position, in my opinion, but I doubt she will listen to me.”

A sly smile crossed the duchess’s face. “Perhaps if you ask her the right way, ask the right question, she would have a reason to remain.”

Oliver raised a brow. “Elizabeth may come and go as she chooses. It is Henry Turner who perplexes me. It is a long way to come simply collect his heir. I have prior experience of the man and he does nothing without the promise of potential gain.”

The duchess clenched her hands together. “Leopold has nothing against him personally, only also wonders why he came back.”

Oliver scowled. “Leopold trusts too easily.”

He placed a compass into the knapsack he would carry and dismissed the matter. Elizabeth would stay or go. He had no ability to influence her decisions. She would remain with George no matter where the boy went. But like it or not, before she departed England, she would have the facts of Henry Turner in her possession. Better to go into a new life prepared than blunder about with blinders on.

The duchess stood suddenly. “You know, this will be a lovely room. Big enough even for a small family to live comfortably in for many years.”

“My paternal grandmother lived here with a companion,” he murmured. The companion’s room had been cleaned, but the bedding had not been salvageable. He would keep the room empty and when he returned he’d make it his study. The room George had said he preferred, the one containing the model of the abbey, would be locked on his departure, nailed shut if he had to, and never opened again. No one must discover the other passageways.

When the duchess remained silent, Oliver looked up. Her eyes had narrowed. “I am sorry that you are going away from us so soon. I find I enjoy having Leopold’s family and acquaintances around me immensely. Tobias has brought much happiness to my life by his devotion to my sister. Eamon Murphy and Beth Turner are two people I trust. I would like one day for the young duke to get to know you, too. There is much you could teach him about his inheritance, I think. I wish you would reconsider and stay a bit longer.”

Oliver tossed a coin he held into an open trunk. “And how long shall I remain at Romsey Abbey, Your Grace, until you are satisfied?” he demanded angrily. “Another year? Five? A decade? Until the duke reaches his majority? How much more of life shall slip past me while I merely read about events in the world?”

A servant on the periphery of his vision gasped, quickly folded what she held, and decamped the room.

Her Grace swallowed but stood her ground. “Forgive me. I did not consider how my request might sound from your perspective. You are right to want more from your life.”

“I apologize for raising my voice, Your Grace.” Oliver scrubbed his hand through his hair. “You merely echo what my brothers have said since the day we were reunited. It is no one’s fault that they are content here and I am not. But there is nothing to hold me to this place.”

He turned away and collected another bundle of books, debating whether they were necessary or superfluous to his needs. He’d already read them from cover to cover. Perhaps they were unneeded. He set them aside, considering whether they could be useful for George Turner’s study.

The duchess cleared her throat behind him. “Oliver, I know you have been some time away from society, but feel I should reacquaint you with the proprieties. Are you aware that you refer to Mrs. Turner by her given name? Always. I don’t believe you have ever addressed her correctly within my hearing.”